The red swatch of cloth looked delicious. Over her palm, it trailed like a thing stitched of the heat of flame, the richness of the strawberry, and Andra ran light fingers over it with a sparkle in her eye, saturated as she was with the scent of fresh cloths that, stacked one over the other like neat piles of equally-thick books, lined the high walls of the shop.

Like expensive metal, she thought, gathering the cloth in her hands. They may not like it, may even hate it, but they can't deny its worth in the market. A mental image of herself, dressed in red buckled with gold at one side of the waist, flashed through her mind, and she smiled at what she found, clearly, a most delightful creation of the mind's eye.

“I want to buy this,” she told Victoria, her tones firmer than usual [as they always were around the lady], and she threw back her hair as she spoke.

This was, apparently, the saleswitch's cue: the curve of he lips a smile that looked so plastic, Victoria thought it might fall off, the young woman began to do, immediately, what she was best at doing – praising the materials in the heavily-perfumed - though very elegant - shop until, Victoria was pretty sure, the fabric itself wished for the ability to crawl into some corner of the building, and die of embarrassment.

“It’s one of our most-sold styles, ma’am,” the saleswitch enthused. “Makes for a classic look, red, and it would look lovely with your hair. We have wraps to match, and I’m sure –”

“This?” Victoria asked loftily, and she held up one end of the fabric. “How pathetic.”

The saleswitch's words died on her lips.

Victoria spoke little but, when she did, it was never idle chatter: the dress, with its catchy shade of gold-tinged red could speak of many a dream but, ultimately, the poor quality of the fabric could drive any picky buyer away. Andra might have noticed this, if she had inspected the cloth another time but, for now, colour had rushed up her cheeks, and she was too furious to think straight - Victoria was an enemy, and so must not be allowed to win.

“It is not!” she said, struggling to keep her voice low as the now-tight-lipped saleswitch moved away [Stealthily, thought Victoria. Such a cat]. “You have no right –”

Victoria Glade straightened to her full height. [She was taller than most women, which made the action a significant attention-catcher.] Andra was pretty sure a reprimand was on its way, but apparently the older woman had no time for such trifles -

“Pack this up,” She said, as she walked over to a shelf and gracefully removed a flowing, black gown from its ivory handle. She did not turn to face the saleswitch, though her gaze lingered on the young woman for a moment, and the latter hurried over - neck and cheeks flushed visibly - collected the gown and hastened away at once [though she was pretty sure Victoria's eyes followed her]. “You were saying, Andraviona?”

But “Andraviona” had already stormed out of the shop.